Chapter 6 Luca
She’s already at the breakfast table when I step into the dining room. Hair pulled back in a messy knot. No makeup. Silk robe clinging to her like a second skin, sliding off one shoulder in a way that looks accidental but sure as hell doesn’t feel it.
She’s got a fork in her mouth, chewing like she hasn’t eaten in days. The plate in front of her is a massacre of eggs and pancetta, half gone already.
Sofia never ate like this.
At our engagement dinners, she’d pick at a salad, touch the bread basket like it might explode. Always careful, always… polite.
This woman is eating like she’s claiming territory. Washing it down with black espresso. No cream, no sugar. Straight caffeine, like a soldier before a long day.
She glances up when she hears my steps, swallows, and says, “Morning.”
“Morning.” My voice comes out slower than I intend, because I’m taking her in. Not just what she’s wearing, but how she’s wearing it. Relaxed. Loose. Like she belongs here.
“You’re hungry,” I say.
Her fork freezes midair for just a beat. “Big day yesterday. Wedding nerves, you know? I barely touched my dinner.”
Bullshit. I watched her clean her plate last night and steal half my tiramisu when she thought I wasn’t looking. I let it slide.
I pour coffee, and take the seat across from her. She eats without pretending it’s for show. No dainty bites, no lowering her eyes.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.
“Like the dead.” She takes a slow sip of espresso. “The bed’s incredible. I haven’t slept that well in months.”
She looks different this morning. More color in her cheeks, eyes sharper. She doesn’t look like a woman weighed down by stress. She looks like a woman who got fucked well and knows it.
“You were nervous?” I press.
She tilts her head, studying me over her cup. “Weren’t you? It’s not every day you marry a stranger.”
The directness is new. At our dinners, she’d answer politely, with careful smiles that said nothing.
“Most brides are nervous,” I say. “You seemed calm though at the ceremony and reception.”
“I’m good under pressure,” she replies, reaching for a second piece of toast.
Good under me.
The robe slips further down her shoulder, exposing warm skin and ink. Black lines curling down her shoulder blade.
What the hell is that?
A tattoo.
A tattoo I failed to notice last night.
I lean back slightly, letting my gaze linger. “Nice tattoo.”
She glances down, tugs the robe up, but not before I catch another glimpse. Looks like words in another language.
“Thanks. From university.” She hesitates, almost self-conscious. “Probably not very appropriate for a Romano wife.”
“Why not?”
“Feels a little… rebellious.” She says it like she’s testing me, like she wants to see what I’ll do with the word.
She’s right, it is rebellious. And the Sofia I met wouldn’t have admitted it out loud.
“What does it say?”
“It’s personal,” she says, a faint smile tugging her lips.
That makes me want to see it again. Makes me want to see all of her again. To trace every fucking inch of her body with my tongue in search of more hidden tattoos.
“What’s the language?”
“Portugues,” she explains. “From a book.”
All perfectly logical. Now, I’m picturing my new wife at school, younger, wilder, stripped of the polish I’ve seen until now. I’m realizing I don’t know anything about her university days or her life even now.
Maybe it’s time I started paying attention.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “What do you want to do today?”
She considers, chewing slowly. “What do married people do the day after their wedding?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure before,” I say.
She lets out a laugh. Not the polite little giggle I remember. This is low and warm.
“We could explore the city,” she suggests. “Play tourist. Eat gelato. Act like normal newlyweds instead of all this.” She gestures back and forth between us.
“Instead of what?”
“Two people who barely know each other who got married for business.”
Her bluntness surprises me. I should shut it down, but instead I’m wondering how she’d sound saying something far filthier in that same calm tone.
“You want to play tourist,” I repeat.
“Why not? When else will we have the excuse?”
“You’re right. Let’s do it.”
She stands, gathering her plates. The robe shifts with the movement, flashing more leg than necessary. She knows I’m watching.
“I’ll get dressed,” she says. “Can’t walk around Rome in a bathrobe.”
As she moves toward the door, I picture her in the city with her hair down, skirt riding high, other men looking. It’s enough to make me set down my coffee and push back from the table.
“Sofia.”
She stops, turns.
I stand, closing the distance until I’m in front of her. “You forgot something.”
Her brows lift. “What?”
I reach up and adjust the robe on her shoulder, the one covering that tattoo, my fingers lingering just long enough for it not to be casual.
“I didn’t notice this before.”
“That’s because you weren’t paying attention,” she says, still smiling.
I take a step closer, enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep my eyes. “You keep surprising me,” I say.
“Is that bad?” she asks.
“Not yet.”
Her lips part, like she’s going to answer, but I don’t give her the chance. I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear. “Get dressed. I’ll be upstairs in ten minutes.”
Then I step back, let her go.
If she’s smart, she’ll take those minutes to remember exactly who she married.